Timothy Ferguson's Blog, page 5
December 27, 2024
Fragment week: The Flowers of Evil
Fragment weeks are where I use up ideas that I know have value in Ars but can’t quite land. Sometime others in the community find excellent ways to use them. Here I’m presenting some of the poems from The Flowers of Evil by Baudelaire. As I think about them I keep circling back to the Lady of Pain and the Ladies of Sorrow. This is because Baudelaire and Swinburne are both decadent poets. There is one inverted Ghostly Warder which would give the Plagued by Supernatural Entity Flaw, and another which might be useful as a necromancer wanting to leave the flesh. Thanks to the Librivox readers and their production team.
BeautyI am lovely, O mortals, like a dream of stone,
And my bosom, where each one gets bruised in turn,
To inspire the love of a poet is prone,
Like matter eternally silent and stern.
As an unfathomed sphinx, enthroned by the Nile,
My heart a swan’s whiteness with granite combines,
And I hate every movement, displacing the lines,
And never I weep and never I smile.
The poets in front of mine attitudes fine
(Which the proudest of monuments seem to implant),
To studies profound all their moments assign,
For I have all these docile swains to enchant—
Two mirrors, which Beauty in all things ignite:
Mine eyes, my large eyes, of eternal Light!
O Beauty! dost thou generate from Heaven or from Hell?
Within thy glance, so diabolic and divine,
Confusedly both wickedness and goodness dwell,
And hence one might compare thee unto sparkling wine.
Thy look containeth both the dawn and sunset stars,
Thy perfumes, as upon a sultry night exhale,
Thy kiss a philter, and thy mouth a Grecian vase,
That renders heroes cowardly and infants hale.
Yea, art thou from the planets, or the fiery womb?
The demon follows in thy train, with magic fraught,
Thou scatter’st seeds haphazardly of joy and doom,
Thou govern’st everything, but answer’st unto nought.
O Loveliness! thou spurnest corpses with delight,
Among thy jewels, Horror hath such charms for thee,
And Murder ‘mid thy mostly cherished trinklets bright,
Upon thy massive bosom dances amorously.
The blinded, fluttering moth towards the candle flies,
Then frizzles, falls, and falters—”Blessings unto thee”—
The panting swain that o’er his beauteous mistress sighs,
Seems like the Sick, that stroke their gravestones lovingly.
What matter, if thou comest from the Heavens or Hell,
O Beauty, frightful ghoul, ingenuous and obscure!
So long thine eyes, thy smile, to me the way can tell
Towards that Infinite I love, but never saw.
From God or Satan? Angel, Mermaid, Proserpine?
What matter if thou makest—blithe, voluptuous sprite—
With rhythms, perfumes, visions—O mine only queen!—
The universe less hideous and the hours less trite.
With pearly robes that wave within the wind,
Even when she walks, she seems to dance,
Like swaying serpents round those wands entwined
Which fakirs ware in rhythmic elegance.
So like the desert’s Blue, and the sands remote,
Both, deaf to mortal suffering and to strife,
Or like the sea-weeds ‘neath the waves that float,
Indifferently she moulds her budding life.
Her polished eyes are made of minerals bright,
And in her mien, symbolical and cold,
Wherein an angel mingles with a sphinx of old,
Where all is gold, and steel, and gems, and light,
There shines, just like a useless star eternally,
The sterile woman’s frigid majesty.
Just like an angel with evil eye,
I shall return to thee silently,
Upon thy bower I’ll alight,
With falling shadows of the night.
With thee, my brownie, I’ll commune,
And give thee kisses cold as the moon,
And with a serpent’s moist embrace,
I’ll crawl around thy resting-place.
And when the livid morning falls,
Thou’lt find alone the empty walls,
And till the evening, cold ’twill be.
As others with their tenderness,
Upon thy life and youthfulness,
I’ll reign alone with dread o’er thee.
Meseemeth thy glance, soft enshrouded with dew,
Thy mysterious eyes (are they grey, green or blue?),
Alternately cruel, and tender, and shy,
Reflect both the languor and calm of the sky.
Thou recallest those white days—with shadows caressed,
Engendering tears from th’ enraptured breast,
When racked by an anguish unfathomed that weeps,
The nerves, too awake, jibe the spirit that sleeps.
At times—thou art like those horizons divine,
Where the suns of the nebulous seasons decline;
How resplendent art thou—O pasturage vast,
Illumed by the beams of a sky overcast!
O! dangerous dame—oh seductive clime!
As well, will I love both thy snow and thy rime,
And shall I know how from the frosts to entice
Delights that are keener than iron and ice?
You are a roseate autumn-sky, that glows!
Yet sadness rises in me like the flood,
And leaves in ebbing on my lips morose,
The poignant memory of its bitter mind.
In vain your hands my swooning breast embrace,
Oh, friend! alone remains the plundered spot,
Where woman’s biting grip has left its trace:
My heart, the beasts devoured–seek it not!
My heart is a palace pillaged by the herd;
They kill and take each other by the throat!
A perfume glides around your bosom bared–
O loveliness, thou scourge of souls–devote
Thine eyes of fire–luminous-like feasts,
To burn these rags–rejected by the beasts!
Where snails abound—in a juicy soil,
I will dig for myself a fathomless grave,
Where at leisure mine ancient bones I can coil,
And sleep—quite forgotten—like a shark ‘neath the wave.
I hate every tomb—I abominate wills,
And rather than tears from the world to implore,
I would ask of the crows with their vampire bills
To devour every bit of my carcass impure.
Oh worms, without eyes, without ears, black friends!
To you a defunct-one, rejoicing, descends,
Enlivened Philosophers—offspring of Dung!
Without any qualms, o’er my wreckage spread,
And tell if some torment there still can be wrung
For this soul-less old frame that is dead ‘midst the dead!
When I behold thee wander by, my languorous love,
To songs of viols which throughout the dome resound,
Harmonious and stately as thy footsteps move,
Bestowing forth the languor of thy glance profound.
When I regard thee, glowing in the gaslight rays,
Thy pallid brow embellished by a charm obscure,
Here where the evening torches light the twilight haze,
Thine eyes attracting me like those of a portraiture,
I say—How beautiful she is! how strangely rich!
A mighty memory, royal and commanding tower,
A garland: and her heart, bruised like a ruddy peach,
Is ripe—like her body for Love’s sapient power.
Art thou, that spicy Autumn-fruit with taste supreme?
Art thou a funeral vase inviting tears of grief?
Aroma—causing one of Eastern wastes to dream;
A downy cushion, bunch of flowers or golden sheaf?
I know that there are eyes, most melancholy ones,
Wherein no precious secret deeply hidden lies,
Resplendent shrines, devoid of relics, sacred stones,
More empty, more profound than ye yourselves, O skies?
Yea, does thy semblance, not alone for me suffice,
To kindle senses which the cruel truth abhor?
All one to me! thy folly or thy heart of ice,
Decoy or mask, all hail! thy beauty I adore!
December 24, 2024
Mythic Europe Magazine: Call For Submissions
Merry Christmas.
Time for news about Mythic Europe Magazine, a new pdf fanzine for the Ars Magica roleplaying game.
I’m concerned that there’s not a regular pdf fanzine to bring new authors into the “game of making the game”. It was the way many of the current authors entered the pool and it is useful to let new authors make themselves known to each other. In the core 40 books David assembled the teams of authors, and now that we need to find our own collaborators, some way for writers to find collaborators with complementary strengths is important. As an additional consideration, writing is hard enough for some people without the extra steps of editing, layout and online publication. There may be authors who need that first step onto the ladder to get to self-publishing and I hope to provide that.
There are two active Ars Magica fanzines in English technically, but for good reasons both are in hibernation. Offering to edit a magazine lets me solve one problem with another, because magazine articles can sometimes either become, or be additional material to, podcast episodes.
I’m almost certain the magazine cannot pay for itself. This is what kills all fanzines eventually: the person running it loses the will to put time and money into something that seems thankless. Between Mythic Venice sales, Magonomia royalties, and money from Games From Folktales subscribers over the seven years, I can dedicate about a thousand US dollars to this project and when that runs out, the magazine pauses until something tops that up. Mythic Venice came out of that same pool of Games From Folktales subscriber money and fortunately it has paid its art costs off. This is my delicate way of suggesting that if you’ve not subscribed on Patreon, you might consider it. Speaking of subscriptions, this magazine won’t have a subscription model. It will be sold on DriveThru and similar sites as single issues. Subscription is financially a better model, but it has an administrative cost in time that I’d like to avoid. Similarly it won’t Kickstart or ransom: both are excellent ideas, but they’re time intensive.
So, time for the details
Payment is 5 cents (USD) per word on acceptance, paid over PayPal. Acceptance may include substantial rounds of revision and may include editing. Note that creature statistic blocks will not be counted, so you are encouraged to use one of the 700 in the Share-alike license. Publishers wishing to promote their own material within the share alike license are welcome to, but will not be paid for their advertisement copy.
Rights: By submitting your work you are granting me a perpetual license of use. Note that this is not a copyright transfer, but one of the things I will likely do is add your work to the Ars Magica Share Alike License. Many other publishers or podcasters will refuse to accept something that has been published in this way. Note that this deliberately does not prevent you bundling up your work to self publish at a later date.
Original Work: No AI tools may be used, beyond spellcheckers and simple grammar correction. If share alike materials or public domain materials are incorporated they must be credited. By submitting you are indicating you are the author of the work and have the right to license it.
Process: Query letters are welcome and help ensure you do not spend time on material already being covered by another author, or covered in the core 40 books. Send queries and submissions to gamesfromfolktales@gmail.com. Submissions must include your name and email address. Pen names are fine for publication, but a real name is required for submissions. As I’m a single person working on this, there may be substantial delay before I respond.
Style: Standalone works of between 500 and 5 000 words in English. There being no guarantee that the magazine will continue for a certain number of issues, serial submissions like columns need to stand as discrete pieces of work. Work should be submitted in a simple file format (like rtf, odt or docx) using a common font. Do not lay out the work, for example by using fonts to mark headings or by using text boxes to create inserts. I simply can’t afford new art and so am not requesting it.
Dispute mechanism: All legal disputes are to be handled according to Queensland (Australian) law. Note that this means you need to arrange your own tax reporting for income.
Change of terms: I may change these terms without warning, because I’m new at this and may have forgotten something obvious.
Some of the material which currently goes into the theoretically-quarterly Games From Folktales transcript pdfs will be incorporated into this magazine. “Name in the Credits” supporters will be named in the magazine.
December 7, 2024
Gibbet Hill by Bram Stoker
A lost short story by Bram Stoker was recently rediscovered in an archive. Its from before he wrote Dracula, so his style is there but the story doesn’t conclude in the way his usually do: you’re left at the Jamesian wallop.
Ben Tucker has recorded a version into the public domain vis Librivox. Thanks to Ben and his production team.
November 18, 2024
The Chant of The Grave-Digger
A little poem for Hallowe’en.
By ROBERT S. CARR
I’m the one who gets you all,
Ho! I swing my shovel!
Lean ones, fat ones, short or tall,
Ho! I swing my shovel!
Rich and poor I lay you deep
Where the grave-worms writhe and creep
In the cold earth’s oozy seep,
Ho! I swing my shovel!
Coffin-lids are bright and new,
Ho! I swing my shovel!
Mausoleums mighty few,
Ho! I swing my shovel!
Hear the wet clods tumble down,
Preacher, thief or circus clown,
Tattered rags or ermine gown,
Ho! I swing my shovel!
Far away from mortal woes,
Ho! I swing my shovel!
Maggots nibble at your toes,
Ho! I swing my shovel!
Born to die—a monstrous jest!—
Sordid four-score years at best,
Then you’re rotting with the rest.
Ho! I swing my shovel!
November 6, 2024
The Sorcery of Aphlar by H. P. Lovecraft and Duane W. Rimel
Another little story from Fantasy Fan magazine read by Ben Tucker through Librivox.. Thanks to Ben and his team.
***
The council of twelve seated on the jeweled celestial dais ordered that Aphlar be cast from the gates of Bel-haz-en. He sat too much alone, they decreed, and brooded when toil should have been his lot. And in his obscure and hidden delvings he read all too frequently those papyri of Elder æons which reposed in the Gothic shrine and were to be consulted only for rare and special purposes.
The twilight city of Bel-haz-en had climbed backward in its knowledge. No longer did philosophers sit upon street corners speaking wise words to the populace, for stupid ignorance ruled within the crumbling and immemorially ancient walls. Where once the wisdom of the stars abounded, only feebleness and desolation now lay upon the place; spreading like a monstrous blight and sucking foul nurture from the stupid dwellers. And out of the waters of the Oll that meandered from the mountains of Azlakka to pass by the aged city, there rose often great clouds of pestilence that racked the people sorely, leaving them pale and near to dying. All this their loss of wisdom brought. And now the council had sent their last and greatest wise man from them.
Aphlar wandered to the mountains far above the city and built a cavern for protection from the summer heat and winter chill. There he read his scrolls in silence and his mighty wisdom to the wind about the crags and to the swallows on the wing. All day he sat and watched below or drew queer drawings on small bits of stone and chanted to them, for he knew that some day men would seek the cave and slay him. The cunning of the twelve did not mislead him. Had not the last exiled wiseman’s screams rent the night two moon-rounds before when people thought him safely gone?
Had not his own eyes seen the priest’s sword-slashed form floating by in the poison waters? He knew no lion had killed old Azik, let the council say what they might. Does a lion slash with a sword and leave his prey uneaten?
Through many seasons Aphlar sat upon the mountain, gazing at the muddy Oll as it wound into the misty distance to the land where none ever ventured. He spoke his words of wisdom to the snails that worked in the ground by his feet. They seemed to understand, and waved their slimy feelers before they sank beneath the sand again. On moonlight nights he climbed the hill above his cave and made strange offerings to the moon-God Alo; and when the night-birds heard the sound they drew close and listened to the whispering. And when queer winged things flapped across the darkened sky and loomed up dimly against the moon Aphlar was content. Those which he had addressed had heeded his beckoning. His thoughts were always far away, and his prayers were offered to the pale fancies of dusk.
Then one day past noontide Aphlar rose from his earthen chair and strode down the rock mountain-side. His eyes, heeding not the rotten, stone-walled city, held steadfastly to the river. When he drew near its muddy brink he paused and looked up the bosom of the stream. A small object floated near the rushes, and this Aphlar rescued with tender and curious care. Then, wrapping the thing in the folds of his robe, he climbed up again to his cave in the hills. All day he sat and gazed upon the object; rummaging now and then in his musty chronicles, and muttering awful syllables as he drew faint figures on a piece of parchment.
That night the gibbous moon rose high, but Aphlar did not climb above his dwelling. Queer night-birds flew past the cavern’s mouth, chirped eerily, and fled away into the shadows.
Many days passed before the council sent their messengers of murder; but at last the time was thought ripe, and seven dark-browned men stole away to the hills. Yet when that grim seven ventured within the cave they saw not the wise man Aphlar. Instead, small blades of grass were sprouting in his natural chair of earth. All about lay papyri dim and musty, with faint figures drawn upon them. The seven shuddered and left forthwith when they beheld these things, but as the last man tremblingly withdrew he saw a round and unknown thing lying on the ground. He picked it up, and his fellows drew close in curiosity; but they saw upon it only alien symbols which they could not read, yet which made them shrink and quaver without knowing why. Then he who had found it cast it quickly over the steep precipice beside him, but no sound came from the slope below whereon it should have fallen. And the thrower trembled, fearing many things that are not known but only whispered about. Then, when he told how the sphere he had held was without the weight a thing of stone should have; how it was like to have floated on air as the thistledown floats; he and the six with him slunk as one from the spot and swore it was a place accursed.
But after they had gone a snail crawled slowly from a sandy crevice and slid intently over to where the blades of grass were growing. And when it reached the spot, two slimy feelers stretched forth and bent oddly downward, as if eager to watch forever the winding river.
***
I’d note that you could stat the magician Aphlar as a Bjornaer Great Beast using the enormous snails in Transforming Mythic Europe as a guideline
October 22, 2024
Podcast transcripts for January to June 2024
The process of catching up on the podcast transcripts continues apace!
October 21, 2024
Podcast Transcripts for July – December 2023
Time to catch up!
These are the transcripts for July – December 2023.
October 9, 2024
Wood Magic
John Buchan was a Scottish novelist and poet who died in 1940. He was Governor-General of Canada for a while, which was no so odd as you’d imagine back in the days of Empire. This is Buchan attempting to be a 9th Century peasant. A grog or companion in Ars Magica could repeat this.
***
(9th Century)
I WILL walk warily in the wise woods on the fringes of eventide,
For the covert is full of noises and the stir of nameless things.
I have seen in the dusk of the beeches the shapes of the lords that ride,
And down in the marish hollow I have heard the lady who sings.
And once in an April gloaming I met a maid on the sward,
All marble- white and gleaming and tender and wild of eye;—
I, Jehan the hunter, who speak am a grown man, middling hard.
But I dreamt a month of the maid, and wept I knew not why.
Down by the edge of the firs, in a coppice of heath and vine.
Is an old moss-grown altar, shaded by briar and bloom.
Denys, the priest, Hath told me ’twas the lord Apollo’s shrine
In the days ere Christ came down from God to the Virgin’s womb.
I never go past but I doff my cap and avert my eyes —
(Were Denys to catch me I trow I’d do penance for half a year.) —
For once I saw a flame there and the smoke of a sacrifice,
And a voice spake out of the thicket that froze my soul with fear.
Wherefore to God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,
Mary the Blessed Mother, and the kindly Saints as well,
I will give glory and praise, and them I cherish the most.
For they have the keys of Heaven, and save the soul from Hell.
But likewise I will spare for the lord Apollo a grace.
And a bow for the lady Venus — as a friend but not as a thrall.
‘Tis true they are out of Heaven, but some day they may win the place ;
For gods are kittle cattle, and a wise man honours them all.
Venice: The Invisible Grandfather and some vis sources
A brief episode this week, because I was busy writing the index of creatures with Might in the 5th edition. It’s useful for authors working under the Open License, but terrible copy for a podcast. In the Venetian book there’s always been a column sized gap at the end of the magical humans chapter. I just read a Venetian story in Italo Calvio’s Italian Folktales which is suitable. I can’t read it directly because Calvino’s words are still under copyright: but the idea isn’t. Folktales themselves cannot be captured by copyright, only the form of words each author uses. Here’s the summary that will be in my book.
***
In one of the apparently abandoned palaces of Venice there’s an elderly man under a curse. He’s entirely invisible, except for his hands. Even if he dresses, his body remains clearer than glass, so only his gloves are visible. He rarely bothers to dress anymore in the summer. Traditional ways of detecting invisible objects, like throwing soot or flour into the air, are ineffective with the Grandfather. The soot or flour also becomes invisible, save on his hands.
His curse will be broken when he takes in someone off the street and raises them to a position of social importance. He may only use good counsel, coupled with his capacity to spy effortlessly, for this purpose. He cannot, for example, steal valuable things for his protege’s use. He never reveals why he is cursed: it is a matter of deep, personal shame.
The man has become very old waiting for success and visibility. He has come close three times and lost out at the last moment, forced to start again with a new street-waif. The unfaithful fiancé of his first protégé might have been Venetian culture and bad luck. The way the betrothed of the second girl drowned was suspicious. He might seek out magical aid, bartering his services as a spy to the magi. They can’t aid his newest charge directly, but they can see if whatever supernatural force cursed him is playing fairly.
The two proteges the Grandfather was unable to assist still live in Venice and help him in tasks other than breaking his curse. This might serve as a player character background or provide a covenant servant with a plot hook.
**
There was also a space where I couldn’t get public domain art of red coral that I liked. It was filled with a small paragraph of vis sources.
Vis sources from the islands
Many of the islands could provide thematic vis sources for your covenant. Malamocco produces a variety of white asparagus that often contains Creo vis. It must be grown in complete darkness.
Sant Erasmo’s abundant artichoke crops provide the delicate, violet castraure. These are the first, small buds from each plant each year. They are an aphrodisiac. They are so valuable, but offered in such volume in the Rialto, that it is clear some farmers are selling secondary buds as counterfeits. The plants are descended from one of the many beautiful nymphs terrorized by Zeus with bizarre transformations.
San Gregorio Maggiore is one of the finest places in Europe to catch red mullet. Consuming this fish’s flesh causes lethargy so it is used in sleeping draughts. It was sacred in the Eleusinian mysteries and to Hecate. Some Romans trained them to come to the owner’s voice, as pets.
***
The Venice book is out, but I’m waiting until DrivethruRPG lets me onboard before I push it on socials and put a pinned link on this page. There is a delay because I’m a new publisher there and their approval people are at a convention.
Venice: The Invisible Grandfather
Two brief episodes this week, because I was busy writing the index of creatures with Might in the 5th edition. It’s useful for authors working under the Open License, but terrible copy for a podcast. In the Venetian book (coming soon!) there’s always been a column sized gap at the end of the magical humans chapter. I just read a Venetian story in Italo Calvio’s Italian Folktales which is suitable. I can’t read it directly because Calvino’s words are still under copyright: but the idea isn’t. Folktales themselves cannot be captured by copyright, only the form of words each author uses. Here’s the summary that will be in my book.
***
In one of the apparently abandoned palaces of Venice there’s an elderly man under a curse. He’s entirely invisible, except for his hands. Even if he dresses, his body remains clearer than glass, so only his gloves are visible. He rarely bothers to dress anymore in the summer. Traditional ways of detecting invisible objects, like throwing soot or flour into the air, are ineffective with the Grandfather. The soot or flour also becomes invisible, save on his hands.
His curse will be broken when he takes in someone off the street and raises them to a position of social importance. He may only use good counsel, coupled with his capacity to spy effortlessly, for this purpose. He cannot, for example, steal valuable things for his protege’s use. He never reveals why he is cursed: it is a matter of deep, personal shame.
The man has become very old waiting for success and visibility. He has come close three times and lost out at the last moment, forced to start again with a new street-waif. The unfaithful fiancé of his first protégé might have been Venetian culture and bad luck. The way the betrothed of the second girl drowned was suspicious. He might seek out magical aid, bartering his services as a spy to the magi. They can’t aid his newest charge directly, but they can see if whatever supernatural force cursed him is playing fairly.
The two proteges the Grandfather was unable to assist still live in Venice and help him in tasks other than breaking his curse. This might serve as a player character background or provide a covenant servant with a plot hook.
